


This Is A Volcano

by Bowser_Sourpuss_Bread



Series: Tales From The Garreg Mach School of Peace: My Three Houses Modern AU [12]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, COVID, COVID-19, Canon Disabled Character, Coronavirus, Dimitri's Therapy Rats, Disabled Character, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Non-Binary Hubert, Novel Coronavirus, Quarantine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bowser_Sourpuss_Bread/pseuds/Bowser_Sourpuss_Bread
Summary: The modern AU gang encounters a modern problem: COVID-19.Updates Fridays!
Series: Tales From The Garreg Mach School of Peace: My Three Houses Modern AU [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629751
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. This Is A Volcano (Claude)

**Author's Note:**

> So I started working on this project right after my college declared that they would be sending us home to try to mitigate the spread of COVID-19. Today is (technically) the last day of my semester.
> 
> I was initially reluctant to post this, considering that the situation with COVID-19 is A) traumatizing, B) politically-charged, and C) ever-evolving, but, upon reconsideration (and encouragement from my friends), I think those reasons are precisely why this project should be shared.
> 
> If the world is going to be divided into "pre-COVID-19" and "post-COVID-19," I think it is valuable to understand what was happening in between. Fan works are a form of cultural history! :D
> 
> That being said, please take care of yourself when reading these fics. In the summaries/beginning notes for each vignette, I will provide warnings about any additional triggers.

* * *

_“I gotta be honest with ya: We did see this comin’.”_

* * *

“You know you _can_ use a ladder.”

“I _can_ ,” Claude von Riegan agrees, perched on the top of the bookshelf. It is an old bookshelf, fitting for the history section of the Garreg Mach School of Peace’s library. But it is sturdy. Garreg Mach has not neglected its past. The student, of its first class not learning how to wage war, peers into the top shelf. He reaches between his legs. “This one, right?” At the other student’s nod, he throws the heavy, dusty tome down at the ground.

Lysithea von Ordelia slides back in her wheelchair. “You know that’s the _least_ effective way you could kill me.” She starts to lean down.

“Wait just a second..!” The leader of the Golden Deer house scrambles down the bookshelf with the speed of a deer—but thankfully with the dexterity of an animal with opposable thumbs. He picks up the book and hands it to her. “My lady.” He pairs the hand-off with a dramatic, sweeping bow.

“You know what? _That’s_ the least effective way you could kill me. Killing with kindness only works when your target doesn’t see through you.”

“Alas..!” Claude mock-swoons. “I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses!”

Lysithea snorts. “Nice try. I’m taking a break from Shakespeare. Funny that you mention plagues, though, because that’s what this-” She raps her knuckles on the cover of the recovered book. “-is about.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you have enough experience with…” He makes a vague gesture.

“Disease?” Lysithea supplies. He raises his hands in surrender. She snickers. “Contrary to popular belief, I have not, in fact, contracted every ailment on the surface of the planet. Because then I would be dead. Popular belief is stupid.”

Claude seizes the opportunity to chime in. “True that!” He plops down to sit on the table next to his friend. “I’m just asking why you’re interested in reading about a…” He cocks his head, reading the askew text. “1918 flu.”

“Well, it’s a strain that returned to cause a second pandemic, 91 years later, for starters, so I’m hoping to figure out how much we learned. But more importantly…” Her expression darkens. “The propaganda of the time has forever shaped our perceptions of the truth.”

Sensing a timely gravity, Claude places a reassuring hand on her shoulder: “Propaganda _always_ shapes truth.” Truth is just the medicine Lysithea likes, and the truth he provides is just vague enough to trigger a correction.

“Well, that’s true, but the propaganda of our time is more widespread and insidious than ever.” Claude bats his eyes: _Go on, educate me, oh great Lysithea!_ She does: “Do you know about COVID-19?”

“Considering the context, I’m assuming it’s a disease.”

“You assume correctly in this case,” Lysithea tells him. She tells him about punishments for doctors across the ocean being suddenly silenced for crying out about lack of medical supplies. When Claude points out that’s that across the ocean, she reminds him that the oceans have never been so small as they are now. “As propaganda shapes truth,” she tuts. “So does technology. And our technology has made us interconnected. Economically, it’s like we’re all one nation.” She smiles at his scoff at nationalism.

“That’s true. But it’s also true that not every disease ends up in a book like this. Our technology has made us interconnected, but our technology also protects us.” Claude slaps his shoulder, where he gets his vaccines.

Lysithea sinks into her wheelchair, sighing. “I know. And maybe I’m just overreacting, but-”

“But you’re _not_ ,” Claude assures his friend. “You’re doing research. Real research. Not Karen-from-Facebook research.”

“...I thought you were calling me a Karen-from-Facebook for a second there, Claude. Good thing you’re not, or else I would’ve had to kill you.” Claude laughs. It bolsters his friend’s confidence. He advises her to check in with a faculty member. They know the library even better than he does! They probably can’t climb it the way he does, though!

* * *

_“It was like a plume of smoke from across the ocean. We saw it, but we said, ‘Not us. Not now.’”_

* * *

“I wish they’d just _stop_.”

Claude von Riegan looks up from his assignment to peer at Leonie Pinelli, who is grinding her teeth against her pencil. “Stop assigning homework? Me too…”

“What?” She blinks. The pencil falls out of her hand. Out of her mouth. Clatters onto her notebook. “No, not that. Yes to that too. But I was talking about Corona. Ignatz and Raphael were talking about it in the hallway on our way here. Like they’re scared. Like it’s coming!”

While it is true that Ignatz and Raphael were talking, it sounds like more than them are speaking when Leonie talks. “Oh, yeah,” Claude says. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah!” his friend yelps. “Because that’s what _everyone_ is talking about! Like, we’re still at school. People still have to go to work. People don’t just _die_ from _the flu_.”

Now that last statement… “People die from the flu.”

“Not _normal_ people, though!”

Claude puts down his book and looks his friend in the eye. She wilts under his appraising gaze, like the sun. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just…”

“You’re scared?” he offers.

Leonie buries her face back in her book.

* * *

_“Well, guess what? This is a volcano. Volcanoes may go to sleep, but they’re always there.”_

* * *

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester’s head falls into his hands.

Claude von Riegan looks up. “Hey, buddy-” He resists the urge to reach out and touch his friend. “-it’s not all bad. There are some good numbers here. Like, like, the DOW. Before this, it was at its highest-”

“It has since had its greatest drop in recorded history,” Lorenz murmurs.

“True,” Claude concedes. “But unemployment is-”

“This week, there were the largest amount of unemployment claims _ever_.”

“A lot of people will return to work once this is all over..!”

Lorenz is on his feet. His chair has fallen like a body. “I don’t want to talk about the _economy_ ! I don’t care about its numbers! The only numbers that matter are right _here_.” He jams his finger at the document, fingers curled, like he is trying to claw the numbers out. Claude knows the numbers. Not enough ventilators. Not enough healthcare workers. Not enough hospital beds. So many people.

“So many people are going to die, Claude,” Lorenz whispers beseechingly. “So many people are going to die _here_.”

* * *

 _“But… This is a volcano. Volcanoes erupt. But then they stop. Don’t get me wrong: They leave a lot of destruction in their wake, but they don’t destroy forever. And they don’t destroy everything. The ground around it may look different, but it’s still there. Our objective is to stay safe until we can return to that ground and construct something new, something better, something we learned from the process of all running from the lava_ together _.”_

Claude von Riegan clears his throat. He blinks as the stage lights go dark around him. “Need another take?” he calls out. When he is told no, he slumps into his chair. Dimitri is already curled up in his. His eye never stopped quivering during the recording, but now his whole body is shaking to match. Edelgard, on the other hand, is glaring at her chair like it is a prison. Now that Claude thinks about it, standing behind him during his speech is the longest he’s seen her stand still since they got the news.

Now, the other students will be getting the news too: Garreg Mach School of Peace will be closing for the semester. All students are to leave immediately. Emergency housing will be given to those students who have unsafe family situations, as well as those students who are unable to return home, particularly those who live away from the continent-

Speaking of international flights… As he checks his phone, Claude confirms that it’s time for him to head to the airport for his. He pops up from his chair and starts bustling towards where he has left his suitcases.

“Claude!” He turns around. Seteth is scurrying towards him. He stops six feet away. “Do you need to pack anything else? I am happy to-”

Claude von Riegan gives a weary smile at the man. “Nope, I’m all packed.”

Seteth nods haltingly. “Well, if you do need anything—if you can’t get on the flight or they don’t let you off the plane or-” Seteth blinks; his phone is ringing.

“I have your number.” Claude ends the call before the other can pick up. “I have _everyone’s_ numbers. And once I’m off the plane, I’ll check in with everyone.” As he gives one final look, he meets his fellow future leader’s gazes.

As they wave at one another, Claude von Riegan marvels at how the future has come so quickly.


	2. Ghost Town (Dimitri)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri realizes that it takes a village to help the living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains depictions of mental illness, mentions of wanting to do self-harm, and internalized ableism.

Dimitri Alexandre Bladdiyd thought he was getting better. He had returned to his studies. (That semester immediately after  _ that _ was scrubbed from his record. The time between that and now? Medical leave.) He had begun speaking to the press in Faerghus again. (But not about  _ that _ . He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to talk about that. Not with his words anyway…) He had begun talking to his friends. (His friends from before that, his friends that he left behind, his friends have been so good to him, he doesn’t deserve his friends-)

It has come true. He doesn’t deserve them, so they’re taking them away.

The only tragedy in that is that they’re being taken away from each other.

Dedue had prepared him for the possibility, of course. Dedue is a good friend. He doesn’t deserve him. But possibility and reality are two very different things. (Everyone is an eventual ghost, but no one told him about how ghosts choke out the living: not with shadowy tendrils but honey-sweet—is that what they say—pleas.)

(The worst thing is that they are telling the truth. They don’t lie about how they suffer. The ones who lie are the ones everyone sees.)

There will be many more ghosts from this disease. But at least before, he wouldn’t be facing familiar ones.

As the prince of Faerghus stares at the castle growing bigger—and simultaneously darker—on the horizon, he wonders if he is even deserving of the familiar ghosts’ company.

* * *

Glenn Victor Fraldarius visits him that night. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

The answer, of course, is nothing. He is doing nothing. He did nothing during The Tragedy. He had done nothing during medical leave—or whatever the newspapers called it.

A mental breakdown?

Dimitri appreciates their honesty.

Dedue opens the blinds in his room. It is not night. No matter. He does nothing. Anything else will crush this moment of peace between his bloody fingernails.

The best he can hope for is that that blood is his.

* * *

Dedue  _ never _ does nothing.

Dimitri watches what Dedue does. Dedue sets clothes out. Dedue vacuums the floor. Dedue trains the rats. Dedue  _ feeds _ the rats. Dedue makes food. Dedue talks with his uncle. Dedue does homework. Dedue attends meetings. Dedue watches cooking videos. Dedue waters his plants. Dedue changes into pyjamas. Dedue goes into bed.

Dedue is next to him.

Dimitri knows what others think it means. But Dimitri knows what it really means. Having someone next to him to tell him what’s real. Having someone next to him to bring him back from the memories. Having someone next to him to keep his hands away from his face.

He doesn’t have another eye to give, after all.

But as he watches Dedue, Dimitri thinks about what he  _ can _ give. He can give attention to his clothes. He can give affection to his rats. He can give a modicum of care to his room. He realizes what he  _ needs _ to give when Dedue sits down across the room, setting his computer on his lap.

Dimitri sees Dedue’s face on the screen. His teeth are on his lip. He keeps glancing down at a somewhat crumpled (and stained) piece of paper. Suddenly, Dedue’s is not the only face on the screen.

Edelgard’s face is on the screen. Behind her is Hubert’s face. The room is so dark it looks like they are floating there.

Like a ghost.

Instead of recoiling from the ghost, though, Dimitri finds himself transfixed. Two more ghosts: Claude and Hilda. Two different boxes. Right. They don’t live together. The prince listens: Everyone who has signed up to stay on campus are spread out across campus. Like a graveyard. A new graveyard. The old ones pile corpses on corpses.

“It’s a ghost town, Seteth says,” Claude explains.

Dimitri blinks. He sees the floating heads, but they’re all in different boxes.  _ No, _ he realizes,  _ we need a village. _

Taking off the blankets is like growing wings. He drifts over to Dedue. Dedue is on the sofa. There is a space next to him. As Dimitri sits down, he sees, behind his eye, a space for ghosts.


	3. The Best Laid Plans (Edelgard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard vows to take control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is reference to sexual violence (committed by clergy) here as well as internalized ableism.

Edelgard von Hresvelg wonders if The Goddess would compose such a poem:  _ “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley.” _

The poem exalts the mouse as being blessed with ignorance. It does not know that its death to the chill of winter is assured. But humanity carries a great burden: a burden of The Goddess’ design. Edelgard may not believe The Church, but she remembers.

(She remembers many things about The Church: the stained-glass windows, the hymns, the darkness of the basement, the hands.)

Edelgard will never forget the hands.

Edelgard’s hands steeple as she watches the news across the bottom of the screen like an inexorable plough. The deaths continue. The Goddess ploughs on.

The princess of Adrestia, too, continues to cut her path. Watching the news is only a substitution in her schedule. She doesn’t need to talk to the other students as much; they talk to each other. Social distancing, yes, that’s what they say.

The rest of her schedule remains unchanged. She gets up before the sun to take a shower. An indulgence with how long it is. But no one else is awake. No one sees. (Hubert has seen her  _ be _ the indulgence.) She charts her assignments before breakfast. She checks her blood sugar. Breakfast is 25% eating and 75% eating strategically, to hide the sound of listening. She goes to her morning class. She checks her blood sugar. She eats lunch. Lunch is 25% eating strategically and 75% speaking strategically, so she is “social” enough for the day. She starts doing some work for the morning class. She goes to her afternoon class. She starts some work for the afternoon class. She checks her blood sugar. She eats dinner. Dinner is 25% speaking strategically and 75% thinking ahead. She finishes the work for the classes. She does work not for the classes. Add blood sugar checks as needed.

Until it is crushed like a nest beneath a plough.

She must admit that she acted out shamefully. In Professor Manuela’s class, she asked about the grade point averages, the internships, the blanks on the resumes. She was told exactly what she needed to hear: “We are trying to save lives right now, Edelgard. The rest will come.”  _ Lives like  _ **_yours_ ** _. _ It is true, of course. She needed to hear that. She can not forget it.

She will need to check her blood sugar more often. It is a change. She will not have a nurse nearby at all times, if need be. She will become part of the daily scrawl if she does not control it.

But she will control it. She needs to. Now, more than ever, she will stake her claim. She was born to be a leader. What she was born with in addition is merely an extra test.

  
Robert Burns, that unwitting murderer, said:  _ "The best-laid plans of mice and men / Go oft awry.” _ At least he stopped to acknowledge the suffering.


	4. Of Mice and Men (Hubert)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert feels control slip through their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several warnings for this one! Graphic depiction of illness, references to hospitalization, depictions of racism.

Hubert von Vestra feels like the mouse watching the plough crush the nest.

They first hear the cough as she is in the bathroom. She is clever. She waits it out in the bathroom. She knows they won’t go in. She knows what they saw in the basement. They are as haunted as she is. Hubert knows that. Hubert must  _ keep _ knowing that. She’s not trying to be difficult. She’s trying to stay in control. She knows she can’t control it. But she can’t live with herself if she doesn’t try.

Hubert equally can not live with themself if they do not try. “My lady,” they say that first day. “It looks like it is going to rain. Instead of walking in the courtyard, I would recommend that we play chess.” Edelgard is suspicious. Rightfully so. But the weather is on their side that first day: A rainstorm is indeed coming.

As they play chess, Hubert allows themself their own indulgence: watching the clouds gather and darken like a robed procession of black-robed arbiters. The rainstorm does not come that day. It comes that night, and the sound of rain, like justice, lulls Hubert to sleep.

The rainstorm’s trial goes on for two days. Hubert does not hear anything worse than the coughing, a dry, mild coughing. Edelgard checks her blood sugar more often than usual, but that is just a precaution. She is resistant, not reckless. Hubert thinks that their lady has been absolved.

But the morning of the fourth day, the court is suddenly adjourned. That is the morning when Edelgard does not get up before the sun. She did not forget to set her alarm. She sleeps through it.

Hubert does not. When they go to turn off her alarm, they feel a heat on the bed. They stop. They stare. Does she look paler than usual? Is that sweat on her brow? Her eyelids are lax; she is still sleeping.

They silently take off her gloves and put a hand to her forehead. It’s warm. Hubert curses.

As they slip into the bathroom to wash their hands, they hear a soft groaning. “We are going to the hospital,” they tell her.

“No, we’re not.”

They’re drying off their hands. “Yes, we are.”

They return to her bedside and start packing supplies for her. “No, Hubert.” She stops. They’re not sure if it’s to breathe or to hold back. She continues. “You don’t understand.  _ We _ are not going to the hospital.” They stop. “They’re not allowing visitors.” They can hear the weight of tears in her voice now. “And there are those more at risk than me. And I have medicine and food here. And-”

“And you will be resting all day,” Hubert decides. They turn around. “Do you understand?” She nods with luminous eyes. She sniffles. Hubert goes into a different room to get the medicine and the masks.

On the seventh day, Edelgard does not sleep. Hubert is woken up by an alarm: It’s Edelgard’s blood sugar. It’s gotten dangerously low. They see her eyes, wide and glassy, across the room. They take out the saltines; she needs her 15 grams of easily digestible carbohydrates. They present the crackers to her.

She whines and turns her head away. “My lady,” they tell her. “You need to eat.”

Her eyes flicker towards theirs. Suddenly, they widen. She is lurched over the bed. She coughs. She gasps. She sputters. When the attack is over, she gropes for their wrist and digs her nails in. It’s a promise etched in blood:  _ I’m  _ **_trying_ ** _. _

Trying to  _ breathe _ . It isn’t working.

Hubert uses one hand to squeeze hers. The youth uses the other to call for an ambulance. They explain the timeline, the probable diagnosis, the  _ complications _ .

Hubert hears the guilty verdict in the agonizing silence between the wheezes. It’s  _ theirs _ .

* * *

It is a waste of their time. Everything that is not talking with her is a waste of their time. In a cruel twist of fate, Claude is the next person to sign on to the meeting. He mutes himself immediately. His eyes are wandering across the screen.

Which waste of time is he indulging in? Watching the projections? Reading containment plans? Looking at jokes? Hubert wants to drive their fist through his head, so his brains will rattle to attention.

This is a waste of all their time. As Dimitri and Dedue sign on, Hubert leans against their bedpost and reads. << _ They’re taking good care of me Hubert. _ >> No comma. And it had taken her so long to say that.

Hubert snorts.  _ Say that. _ They lie to themselves. She had not had the strength to say anything. They had watched her wan face be illuminated by her phone as she shakingly, painstakingly offered her platitudes. Something about having a large care team. Something about top-of-the-line technology. Something about being young.

Ah, a large group to watch top-of-the-line technology monitor a young woman’s decay. Delightful. Waste of her time. Talking to them was a waste of her time. Hubert doesn’t know why she bothered.

They gazed back down at that text. << _ They’re taking good care of me Hubert. _ >> All that energy expended for their benefit, not hers. Hubert’s breath hitches.

“Hubert?” the one-eyed buffoon broaches. “Are you OK?”

“What do you think!?” they bite back.

Dimitri recoils. Dedue reassures him. Waste of time. The prince of Faerghus has been unstable far before this all started. This “once-in-a-lifetime” instability. Hubert doubts that. Hubert doesn’t trust anything that says a lifetime can contain only so much.

And her lifetime, which contains so much, may end with being alone.

Hubert can not look at the man, blissfully attended to at all times. They tear their face away, trying to train their expression into something appropriately Hubert-y. Aloof. Perhaps a bit cold. Ready to serve.

_ Ready to serve what? _

This waste of time? Don’t make them laugh. Don’t. Laughter so quickly bleeds into tears, which bleeds into struggling to breathe, which leads into the gasping and the blood on her lips and how could it be that she could end like that.

“Shit,” Claude curses. Ah. He’s noticed the obvious. “Is Edelgard..?”

“Where you think she is,” someone answers.

“Fuck, Hubert, I- No, I mean, how..?”

“How do you think she got it? Someone decided they wanted a luxury bat dinner.”

“Hubert, I do not think that-”

“What do you know, hiding in your room day in and day out!?” Hubert demands of the prince, and when the prince says nothing, they know they are correct.

“Someone decided they wanted a luxury bat dinner. Someone decided to lick a doorknob. Someone hoarded toilet paper. Someone decided to go to the beach. Someone coughed on a grocery store employee. Someone decided that staying inside infringed on their freedom. Someone couldn’t calculate what is 6 feet apart. Someone thought masks were uncomfortable. Different someone. Same someone. Who gives a shit?”

“I know you’re upset-” And isn’t this rich, Hilda telling them about their emotions, she who said they have none at all. “-but is this what Edelgard would want?”

“She’s already dead, is she?” They smile, all teeth, all a scared animal’s grin. “You’re probably right.”

They only barely have the wherewithal to not, in fact, punch their screen. They could not live with themselves if they cut off that line of communication with her. They  _ would _ not live with themselves if they cut off that line of communication with her.

It feels traitorous, being alive while she struggles to survive. While so many someones fight tooth and claw to gasp and wheeze.

They’re all scared animals.

Hubert wants to cry, but they fear a predator snatching them away while they are vulnerable. So their chest aches fruitlessly. Waste of their time.

* * *

Hubert does not know how much time has passed. Time is a waste. But their phone does rumble. They jolt to attention.

But it is not a text from her.

It’s a text from the hiding prince. “Henlo albert i knoe thatr everythkngn can feekl like a awet3 but someonew helpee me few usefull”

  
Hubert blinks blearily. They recognize that phone number. What is  _ Flayn _ going to do for them?


	5. These Are The Times (Flayn and Seteth)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flayn remembers what she was. As long as she can help it, she will not let others be so invisible. Seteth is reminded of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to homelessness.

Her brother has never been a big fan of television. It doesn’t engage the mind, he argued, it’s better to curl up with a good book. Flayn thinks that he doesn’t like television because he didn’t grow up with one, but she must admit that, right now, she isn’t a big fan of television either.

Leaders who talk about a price in lives for saving something that is not lives. Interviews with grieving family. Depictions of exhausted workers. Commercials with nothing but empty thank-yous to people the corporations continue to fire. “We’re all in this together,” they say.

Flayn doesn’t remember much before Lady Rhea, but she does remember the stares. Like all because she and her brother lived on the streets, they were no longer people. They talk about a boat metaphor now, but the truth is that everyone is  _ not _ in the same boat. Some people have yachts. Other people were sinking before this tidal wave came.

Flayn says this to her brother, but he doesn’t say anything back. He just holds her tighter.

The next segment of the news comes on. It’s about food pantries. “Supply and demand,” the newscaster begins. “It’s a tenet of our economy. But what happens when there is a surge in demand but a lack of supply? Tonight, food pantries are overwhelmed as droves of the newly-jobless come in, but traditional donors, such as restaurants, do not…” The camera starts panning to the lines.

Flayn doesn’t remember much before Lady Rhea, but it’s apparent that, to Seteth, these scenes are all too familiar. He turns off the television. “Would you like me to read you a bedtime story?”

Flayn hasn’t needed a bedtime story to fall asleep for a while now—She’s 10 years old, for The Goddess’ sake!—but she can tell that her brother is restless. So she picks his favorite story to read:  _ The Lorax _ . (Flayn thinks the TV version of it is good too, but not the movie!)

Her brother’s Once-ler voice, though, is really good. “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, / Nothing is going to get better. It's not.”

* * *

The next morning, Flayn makes a sandwich.

Her brother pads into the kitchen. “Peanut butter and jelly? Isn’t that a strange choice for breakfast?” Seteth ponders his question before deciding, bah, it’s quarantine, it’s not important. “I’ll work on some tea for us this morning. May you make me a sandwich too?”

The girl does not look up from her work. “I am not making a sandwich for  _ you _ , Brother!”

The man shrinks back. “Ah, of course, that was rude of me to ask.” He hesitates before broaching another, related subject, “And a bit sexist? As you have made a sandwich for yourself, I can make a sandwich for myself…”

Flayn cuts off that unproductive train of thought. “I am not making a sandwich for me either!” She turns around to ensure that he isn’t beating himself up again, but, to her surprise, he is just staring at her, mouth agape. She watches the question form on his lips, but she beats him there by providing an answer. “I am going to make lots of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and donate them to the food pantry!” she declares.

She waits for his inevitable refrain about the danger of her mission. “I am sure that they would appreciate your effort, but peanuts are a common allergen. The pantry might not accept peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“...Oh,” the girl utters, but she will not be deterred! “Then I shall make…” She looks around the kitchen. “BLTs!”

She waits for his inevitable refrain about the strain she is putting on herself. “Food pantries usually host their supplies on-site.”

Well, that problem has a simple solution! “Then I shall go to the food pantry!”

She waits for his inevitable refrain about the difficulty of the journey. “But it is too far to walk!”

“Then you shall drive me!”

“No!” Seteth exclaims. “We are staying inside, where it is safe!”

There it is: the argument she’s been waiting for. But Flayn has done her research. “We are both low-risk individuals. I did some research about our local food pantry: They have masks, and they are limiting the number of volunteers in order to have social distancing. That is an additional problem because most of their volunteers are people in large groups. Volunteering at the food pantry is as dangerous as going to the supermarket or taking a walk or spending time with Lady Rhea and Cyril! All three of those things are risks that we have already taken on!” But Flayn knows that those arguments are not strong enough on their own.

She digs into her memories. She does not remember the lines, but she does remember the stares as she ate her sandwiches from the lines. These are not faceless creatures. And if they are, they are one of them. “Brother… What if Lady Rhea had not found us?”

She watches her brother’s eyes glaze over. When they refocus, they have an objective. “Let us do what we can to help.”


End file.
